In Shapes That Renew
by littleblackdog
Summary: Bagginshield. A sequel to "Made and Remade the Necklace of Songs." This is a Middle Earth wherein Dwarves have Heartsongs, and Hobbits are born with the name of their soulmate upon their wrist. Or sometimes neither of those things is true— the world is a strange and marvellous place, after all.


_A sequel to Made and Remade the Necklace of Songs (Canon-ish Soulmate!AU), which you should probably read first. Also some very minor Desolation of Smaug spoilers can be found here._

_At the moment, this is a short piece. I will likely expand it later on into a proper sequel, all the way to the Five Armies and beyond, but I'm marking it as complete for now._

_And, it's important to note that I'm weaving some book canon in here as well, fleshing out movie!verse stuff to suit my needs. They're lost in the Mirkwood for quite a while here, and kept captive a bit longer than a hot minute as well._

* * *

After so long trudging the paths of the Mirkwood— a miserable march of horrors that had done more ill upon their company than months of hard travel— and then being tossed in this windowless cupboard, Thorin had no idea how long it had been since he'd slept. He wore his weariness like a shroud, heavy and stifling, but he did not dare risk giving in to the leaden weight drawing his head down to bowing, or his eyes to fall closed.

He would not sleep under the hospitality of Thranduil, Elvenking and false friend, unless all other options were exhausted and his body failed him.

The rest of their company took to sleeping in shifts, once they stopped bashing against their cages. Thorin knew it was foolishness to deny himself a turn at rest, even here where they sat impotent and penned like beasts, under Thranduil's tender mercies. There was nothing to be done if the Elvenking decided to turn wrath upon them, no barricades or defences they could build, but at the very least they were free of spiders, and wargs, and whatever other dark terrors lurked in this wretched forest.

With two or more of them always awake and on guard, there was no need for constant vigilance. In fact, there was a better argument in favour of catching what rest they could, while the situation was so far out of their control.

No, there was no compelling reason for Thorin to keep himself from slipping into the relative peace of his dreams, except the lingering fear that he might find naught but silence there.

Where's Bilbo, Bofur had said, as the elves dragged them from the forest.

Where's Bilbo, and Thorin had jerked away as if scalded, scanning the ranks of their company for a familiar tousled head. Nothing but dwarves, wrapped in foul webbing, and sneering elven faces looked back at him.

Hope was a fine gossamer thread, delicate and stretched thinner with each passing hour, but no matter how small, it still burned hotter than dragon's fire in Thorin's breast. He needed the heat of it— the memory of Bilbo's warmth curled against him, the sight of his dear hobbit's smile shining bright as summer sunlight— or all would sink into cold and ruin. The cold of endless night, devoid of even starlight; the blackness of void, without hope or song.

He could not dare risk that bleak knowledge, even as the walls of his cell blurred around him. For as long as he could keep from sleep, he could pretend, he could hope, that Bilbo still lived. It was a horrid kind of hope to cling to, this desperate ignorance, when his heart ached to for the comfort of its song in this sinister place.

* * *

Thranduil, at least, did not mean to starve them. The wine was watered down, but the bread was fresher than Thorin had dared to hope, and he was not so proud to turn down a meal after the debacle of Mirkwood.

He emptied his plate without pause or care, falling upon it like some ravenous creature, which was no so very far from the truth of the matter. As the sounds of others eating and the clatter of simple wooden dishes began to peter off in short order (the others, it seemed, had shared his hunger), Thorin settled in to wait, pressing one hand against his cramping stomach.

It was perhaps an hour later, after Thorin's gut had calmed (not full, but no longer gnawing) when somewhere nearby, one of the others began singing softly to himself in their dim, quiet prison.

It was a child's lullaby Thorin had first heard after they'd arrived in Ered Luin, sung by countless mothers of Uri's Folk to their precious babes. Dis had hummed the same tunes to Fili and Kili, as well as the old songs of Durin's kin, brought with them along the hard road westward. Tales sung of bloody battles, and deep veins of mithril brighter than purest moonlight buried beneath the earth, of brave warriors and clever smiths, and of kingdoms lost.

It was not the song that would cure the fissure cracking wide and aching in Thorin's chest, but it was damnably enough to lull him that barest step too far. He was sitting, his back to cursed elven stone and pitiless bars standing tall before him, and Thorin did not notice the stillness creeping upon his thoughts until it was too late. The lateness of the hour— days, perhaps more, since he had slept peacefully or at all— and the quiet drone of that soothing melody, set upon his mind like water beating against crumbling rock.

Between one blink and the next, he was lost to the warm embrace of darkness, dragging him low.

But there was such wonder waiting for him there, beyond the veil of sleep.

* * *

Hope.

He'd felt it again truly, not some anemic ghost of optimism born of the necessities of leadership and morale. His dreams had been brighter than his waking, filled with rich hues of gold and green, the scents of wildflowers and deep earthy stone, and his song. Not some echo, pulled from fraught memories, but his true song, his Heartsong, bold and buoyant as it wound its way through his soul.

Bilbo was alive.

Bilbo was alive, and they would be free of this place. If Thorin had to pull the very stone to pieces with his bare hands, he would find the strength to do so. They would be free.

"We're never going to reach the mountain, are we," Ori murmured from somewhere in the gloom, sounding too much like a broken boy, too much like young sister-sons who might never see the sky again, or step foot within the grand halls of their bloodline if Thranduil Elvenking were to have his way.

Admonishment caught in his throat. Thorin should have snapped at the lad to shore up, to fortify himself against such crippling doubts, but he could not find the sharpness to do so. The melody of Bilbo's voice was still in his ears, ringing faintly through his blood and bones and banishing the sickly erosion that had taken hold of his spirit in this cursed wood.

"Not stuck in here, you're not."

Thorin was certain, for one agonizing instant, that he was still lost to dreams. There was no other explanation for the blessed, beautiful hobbit suddenly standing just outside his cell door, ragged and pale, but whole.

Then Thorin had that very same door gripped, white-knuckled, with a prayer to Mahal on his lips for strength enough to bend the very bars.

"Thorin—" His name on those lips, carried upon the same whispered voice that filled his dreams, struck him like a bolt. He reached, shoving one arm through what narrow space his elven cage afforded, and took a great handful of filthy, tattered jacket when Bilbo stepped closer.

"Thorin," he said again, soft breath hitching, and they were utterly alone for the span of a single heartbeat, before the others roused to shouting.

"No, no, hush," Bilbo hissed at the lot of them, turning his tired, liquid eyes from Thorin's sight. "Shh! There are guards nearby, and little time. I have the keys, for goodness sake."

The keys to their cells, which he used to great effect— the threat of discovery was too real for much of a reunion, but Thorin could not leave all things unspoken. Not after such a trial.

"My own," he rasped, Khuzdul grinding easier from his tightened throat as his cage door swung open. For one dangerous moment, he pressed forward, heedless of all dangers.

"My Bilbo—" Westron was an ugly tongue, too soft and clumsy, but that was the language he exhaled, pressing his face to Bilbo's lank and sweaty hair. "My own dear hobbit. I feared— I feared you lost."

Rather than push him away, as he rightly should have done, Bilbo flung his arms around Thorin's ribs with hard, unwavering grip. "I will always find you, Thorin. No matter how dark the path."

He spoke against Thorin's chest, the words pitched low and thick with promise— the sort of words that stilled the air around them, like an oath. Then he stretched, balanced up upon his long, bare toes, and murmured two words against the line of Thorin's jaw. "Always, Muhudeldumu."

His pronunciation was still atrocious, but the intent was clear as crystal, and Thorin squeezed his eyes closed against a rise of heat. He would not shed tears in this place, and while the others still locked in their cells had gone mercifully silent, this could not go on.

"Come, then." Thorin dared once more, pressing a quick, firm kiss against Bilbo's brow before letting the hobbit pull away entirely, to scamper off and free the rest of their company. "My clever burglar— steal us from this wretched hole."


End file.
